Industriously looking to end the single life and sharing stories along the way

NYC

Ah, we meet again but this time I have come shamelessly prepared. For this day is oddly identified as an omen for the coming year and greedily poses the challenge of “have a good time.” To that, I release my arms akimbo and exclaim with a nod:

After a tumultuous past year filled with casuistry, depression, loneliness and poor harmony, it’s time to torch this place and bolster that threadbare soul within me. I’m firing off a missive. It’s time to GET STRANGE dammit.

On the 2nd day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: TWO WOMEN WITH TAYLOR SWIFT LYRIC TATTOOS

On the 3rd day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: THREE NIGHTS CAMPING WITH MY EX

On the 4th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: FOUR OVERZEALOUS DRACONIAN FEMINISTS

On the 5th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: FIVE SANCTIMONIOUS #BLESSED HASHTAGGERS

On the 6th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: SIX WHORES IN THE DRAWERS

On the 7th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: SEVEN WET BLANKETS WHO HAVE MET THEIR FRIEND THRESHOLD

On the 8th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: EIGHT ENTERTAINING IDENTITY CRISES

On the 9th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: NINE DUCK-FACE SELFIES

On the 10th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: UPTALKING OR VOCAL FRYING DEBUTANTES

On the 11th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: ELEVEN BATHROOM MIRROR SELFIES (I get it, you use the toilet, you’re potty trained and we’re all super duper proud of you but I don’t need photo evidence of this. Seriously.)

On the 12th day of Christmas, New York dating gave to me: TWELVE REPLY-LESS MESSAGES

This is in response to New York Cliche’s Christmas post. If you’re not familiar, check out her site and follow her on all the social media business. She’s cool, quirky, urban, and – wait for it, wait for it – cliche (ba dum tsh; facepalm). But in a good way.

Friend Threshold: The maximal amount of friends or loved ones a person chooses to maintain. All other associations will either be discarded immediately or left underdeveloped.

What’s your number? Did you reach it? How old were you? Moreover, how did it feel?

I ponder this out of sheer ignorance. The idea of having a myriad of friends, a sweet social network, remains a foreign concept to me, and not by choice. Without my consent, I’ve become a loner, and given my haphazard track record, one might even conclude that it was purposeful and assiduously sought out.

After spending another birthday alone last week, I started digging into what this figurative “friend threshold” is. (Oddly enough, you could take it literally as well. Most notably, Facebook has a harsh 5,000 friend limit; consider yourself warned.) From all the blogs, forlorn songs, confessional websites, historical novels, etc., one would effortlessly conclude that you’re more likely to run into someone seeking friendship than someone not willing to squander any of their social time. And yet, each time I fail making that connection, it ironically connects me to that feeling that’s been sinking. I’m no stranger to Miss Misery. As I become mired in dialogue going nowhere, she pours the whiskey, listens silently, and never forgets to top me off.

In part, I blame the city. Active New Yorkers appear, at the very least, brimmed with companionship. Their ships have boarded and departed, and there I am in some makeshift “Cast Away”raft clumsily paddling towards their modern vessel. In all honestly, I’m not advocating to readily accept every human as your best friend. (We have dogs for that.) But there is plenty of middle ground that’s rarely granted to expatriates like myself.

I’ll give an example.

I organized a pizza party with my roommates and we all chipped in on spreading the word. As luck would have it, the apartment across from us is occupied by three women our age, so I knocked on their door to invite them. Within 10 seconds, my neighbor made it seem as though my presence was that of an intrusive gadfly, despite just standing in the hallway.

“Hey! I’m Single Guy in NYC, I’m not sure if you remember me but I’m you’re neighbor.”

“Okay…” she sighed, hardening her grip on her door frame.

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that my roommates and I are having a party next week and, if you’re all free, you should come hang out.”

“Right, maybe. Thanks.”

The door closed immediately afterwards.

You might think she’s just shy but she’s really not. On the contrary, from what I’ve gathered living on the same floor as her, she’s a lively person. Most likely your average beautiful urban 20-something year old just relishing in their prime. And probably comfortable with her friend threshold. Pizza party? Ha. What’s in it for me?

Olivia and I placidly shook our heads. Familiar with the unconventional ways of my friend Noam, I knew this conversation was going places. However, I had no way of knowing whether its destination would deter innocent-looking Olivia; someone we had just met at this party. It was obvious that my accomplice and I were fighting for Olivia’s attention by passing around funny stories all night. May the most chivalrous man win her over as well as her number.Noam eagerly continued.

“Well, you know that it’s when you realize that you’re dreaming and you can control some things? Anyway, I had one last night. I was walking around Manhattan or something when I noticed that I was just dreaming. So I started flying around, looting some stores, having fun and such.”

“Did you have heat vision too?” I quipped. #DCcomics

“So I’m flying around when I spot two women by the park. I flew over, knocked one to the ground and landed on the other. Then I just started raping her while her friend is yelling and screaming at me to stop. And I said, ‘You shut up! Just SHUT UP! Or I’ll do you too!'”

Noam gave pause to lick his lips before finishing. “Then I did. Then I raped her too.”

A fireworks display worthy of the 4th of July went off in my head. I was abject. Dammit Noam, you twisted fuck. I need to find some new friends. How the hell did I live with this guy for a whole year? Things were looking promising with Olivia until you went off the rails! Even Houdini himself couldn’t get out of this one.

Peering over at Olivia, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Overcome with majesty, she was utterly fascinated by this dream and wanted to hear more. Come to find out, she’s a spiritual dancer (whatever that means) and a self-trained reiki healer who happens to be obsessed with the meaning behind dreams. She pridefully claimed that her extensive dream journal was well over 100 pages long. Although Freud wrote in great length on the subject, making several revisions to The Interpretation of Dreams (1899), she was no Freud. Whether her reasoning was spurious or not, one thing was clear, if it felt right to her, it was right.

You can probably piece together the rest of her personality and beliefs. Here are a few things I instantly assessed without ever having to ask:

Faithful over skeptical

Reads her horoscope daily

Possibly a little solipsistic

Ambitiously gleeful and positive

Has shoddy critical thinking faculties

Thinks everything happens for a reason

She’s more emotionally “intelligent” than traditionally intelligent

Believes in tarot cards, palm reading, psychics, mystics, occultists, and the man by Penn Station that squeezes goat testicles while foretelling your future

Noam had won her heart via a dream of sexual abuse and aeronautics. How could the subject of rape, arguably the most traumatizing calamity a woman could ever experience, immersed in the context of a lucid dream not pose as a red flag? I suppose I was the odd man out on this one since she invited him to her next recital and they’re going on a date next weekend.

Don’t let my irreverent sense of humor fool you. I wasn’t putting Olivia down simply because she’s spiritual. I’m somewhat spiritual myself but it’s a pretty wide term and she embodied all the lazy stereotypes of it. Also, my friend isn’t an abuser or psycho – he has a way of thinking not just outside the box but that there may not be a box at all. Watch him marry this girl and tell her folks how they met. Surely better than a Tinder love story, wouldn’t you agree?

It’s not uncommon to hear the sappy phrase “All you need is love” from a confidant, the radio, a movie (e.g., Love Actually and Independence Day), some amateur blog or mawkish greenhorn. This simplistically cheerful sentiment has permeated the world, along with its cousin, the peace sign. Akin to most life lessons we begrudgingly learn, this Beatles reference is too transparent and ironically unfaithful.

.

Beingin love is a great start but it’s everything after that point that truly matters. The difference between beingin love and loving someone is narrow but deep. The former comes naturally (thus, more often) and the latter requires conscious effort. The best representation of this I’ve come across was a philosophical essay I read several years ago. In it, the sense of being in love was compared to finding a perfectly lush tree in an alluring meadow. To your eyes, this tree is sturdy and symmetrical. Going on this alone – this image you have in your mind – you deem it worthy to invest your time and energy in it. However, over time you become slightly disillusioned but still intrigued. This leads up to a point where, now faced with your greatest adversity yet, the once captivating meadow is scorched barren and the tree is unearthed. This is a critical moment because sometimes, after everything is said and done, a new tree begins to germinate. If something can survive at this point, perhaps it is meant to.

While there is nothing shallow about that ordeal, it nevertheless surprised me that it may not be enough. If you have ever read about determinism or the nature of free will, randomness or uncaused events is a major factor in everyday life. Let’s say that on the day of your big soirée, it rains and consequently, less people show up. Before this chance event occurred, everything was in line for you to have full attendance. I find love to be like this; feelings are one component but external contributors matter just as much. Often times, it’s unfortunate spouts of randomness that acts as one’s impetus to make unplanned changes. Whether such changes can be unequivocally accepted by all parties is another matter entirely.

Although I can sense a paroxysm of head-shaking from readers, everything doesn’t necessarily happen for a reason, you can’t necessarily do everything you set your mind to, and love depends on more than itself alone. If provided a suitable environment, your tree of love can become whatever you want it to be. And it’s in that sense that I remain, at least in part, a hopeless romantic.

Let’s face it, some stereotypes exist for a reason and white women are no exception. Since this is my general demographic, it would be idle to deny it as a factor in how I approach, talk, and date them.

For example, it’s in my best interest to assess how close they may be to the suburban/privileged white girl stereotype. Red flags may include, but not limited to, the following:

I hate to sound fatalistic but I’m quite confident that if I bring one of these gals back to my neighborhood, they would think differently about the relationship. Now, I’m not exactly saying I live in the ghetto but my area has a few salient traits that rub some folks the wrong way. Last week at midday, I went to get my mail and there was a man in the dirt speaking absolute drivel to himself and smoking a glass pipe, possibly crack but I’m not sure. Remember,this was in broad daylight, he doesn’t live in my building and is a complete stranger. My neighborhood isn’t dangerous but if you’re not accustomed to these types of areas, it’s easy to become disillusioned.

Recently, I invited a woman over for dinner. Like me, she’s a NYC transplant. Dinner was great but it was obvious from the few palatable comments she made about my street that I was going to have to walk her back to the train at the end of the night. And, I did. It’s never elucidated but, instead, tacitly agreed upon that she won’t be coming back here again. So much for my bachelor pad.

Full disclosure, I’m not saying that I don’t embody a few lame stereotypes myself (after all, I do author a blog) or that any of these traits are intrinsically abhorrent. Only some of them are.

“It’s better to be silent and a fool than to open your mouth and to prove it.” Hopefully this isn’t your point of view because I’d like to know who the fools are, just as long as there’s an equally vocal retort and opposition to unethical or unreasonable conceptions. Considering the human condition, we are all subject to reproach in our normal discourse. Here are a few facts about myself that seem nonsensical.

I have trouble going outside. This isn’t to say I struggle with agoraphobia but it’s a combination between nerves, my lack of spontaneity, and desire for organized plans. There are times where I plan out an entire day of errands but when the day comes, I can’t bring myself to leave my apartment. Irrational thoughts flood my mind. I didn’t leave the apartment early enough and everyone will know how lazy I am. Why do I even have to do this today? The weather’s not great and I’ll feel under-dressed. What if I get to the store and they don’t have anything that I need? What if I make a fool out of myself when I’m out? How will I forgive myself if I do or say something stupid to stranger? If my roommate says he’s going out to dinner in 5 minutes and asks me to join him, I’ll always hesitate, even if I have absolutely nothing to do. Dinner? I didn’t plan this! What if something happens when I’m away? The majority of the time, I’ll reject these spontaneous offers. However, I do my best to challenge and repudiate each and every one of my anxious thoughts. I overcome them most of the time but I’d rather not deal with it.

I constantly make unnecessary accommodations in order to avoid looking like a creeper. A caustically humorous acquaintance once told me, “As a single guy, you know what you do when you feel as though you just can’t creep anymore? You creep harder.” Although this cracks me up, I could never follow this exaggerated, borderline sarcastic, advice. In reality, he’s really implying is that it pays to be insolent, albeit not always. I’m arrested by anxious thoughts because I don’t want to be misunderstood. Here’s a couple examples: I do most of my reading on the subway and as every New Yorker knows, one is not always blessed with a seat. As I stand in the aisle, I’ll hold my book by my stomach and look down to read. However, if there’s a woman sitting down in front of me, in my line of vision (underneath my book) wearing a low cut skirt or a revealing top, I’ll raise my book to eye level so it doesn’t appear as though I’m looking at her. In all honesty, I’ll sneak a peak but 99% of my attention is on my book. Second example – yoga class. Having no knowledge about yoga, you can imagine how lost I was at times when I started attending a few classes. Ignorant to the vernacular, my poses were an embarrassment and I had to rely on others in order to correct my stances. Yet, I felt like a jerk for looking at someone up and down for a second to assess what I was doing wrong. True, in most circumstances, I’d be smitten by a room full of gorgeous women – okay, I was a little overwhelmed – but in this case, I wanted to learn and my methodological glances felt abasing. So, I memorize everything I screw up on and research outside of class. Well, that is if I can remember.

I’ve asked “Can you keep a secret?” Lying is probably not below those that can’t keep a secret, so it makes absolutely no sense to propose this question. The same goes for when someone asks you a question, and your first response after a moment of hesitation is, “Truth?” No, they want your fatuous lies. That’s why they asked you a question; in order to never hear an answer. This is just plain dumb.

I procrastinate. Edward Young said it best, “Procrastination is the thief of time;Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves, The vast concerns of an eternal scene…At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty, chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same. And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves.” This should be a prescient warning so that one does not end up losing more than one can bear. Yet, I keep delaying and procrastinating. Such a funny thing.